Page 89 of Murder By the Millions
“Mother, please.”
“Your father always said—”
“I know what Dad said. You quote him often enough.”
She glowered at her son.
“Patrick said he ran into Jason outside town hall after the fracas,” I went on, undeterred. “He said they mended fences, and I checked. A gardener did see them there.”
Zach made a dismissive sound with his tongue.
I ignored him and continued. “But the gardener didn’t know what they discussed, and said the two men did some finger-pointing. Patrick told me Jason had hired him to do some repairs to the back porch of his house, but what if he lied so he could claim he’d visited the estate and gotten mud on his shoes?”
Except he said he’d muddied his boots at Linville Caverns.
“What mud?” Zach snapped.
“Tuesday morning, when I saw Patrick at the Blue Lantern, he had dried mud on his boots. He said he’d acquired it at Linville Caverns, thus, the reason why Tegan and I drove up there. To see if he’d left evidence of having been there.”
Zach groaned.
“Have you tested the dirt from Jason’s foyer floor?”
“We’re awaiting results.”
“You might find remnants to test in Patrick’s truck or at his house. Also, there’s one more person you should consider. Reika—”
“Allie, enough,” Zach said, a stern warning in a tone, which, to be truthful, I was beginning to hate.
“She has a dog. The neighbor, Mr. Smith, heard a dog barking Monday night. What if—”
Zach swatted the air. “Thank you for your information. Bye. And, Mom, don’t say a word.”
She mimed locking her lips.
When he left, I didn’t move, angry with myself. Over the years, my parents had cautioned me about being impulsive. Mostly, I’d learned to curb this bad habit. Why hadn’t I been able to today? I’d crossed the line with Zach without blinking an eye.
Give it a rest,I thought.Everyone’s entitled to act stupidly once in a while. On the other hand, you really abuse the privilege.
CHAPTER18
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
—Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald’sThe Great Gatsby
When I arrived at the history museum, Reika was on the front porch, sweeping with a besom broom. She’d wrapped a bandanna around her hair. Her denim overalls were filthy with dust. Her bulldog was lying on the porch swing, a silly-looking Covid mask covering her mouth.
“Hi.” I climbed the steps, carrying bakery boxes. “Hello, Princess.”
The bulldog yipped in greeting.
I pointed to the dog’s mask. “For the dust?”
Reika replied, “I’m free to roam inside the museum without her attending to my every move, but when I go outside, she refuses to leave my side. She gets clogged up and coughs incessantly if I don’t mask her. Are those our goodies?”
I nodded. “Where would you like me to put them?”
“Let’s go to the kitchen.” She propped the broom against the wall, removed the dog’s mask, scratched the pup’s ears with affection, and ordered her to follow us.
